


Two For Luck

by StarGzer



Category: Lancer (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:02:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26822611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarGzer/pseuds/StarGzer
Summary: Johnny is tied to Lancer in a way he never thought possible. Thanks to Anna for the beta.
Kudos: 7





	Two For Luck

What had been weeks, Johnny now counted in months. Being tied to Lancer in a way he never thought possible was different than the open road. But it was the same, in a way. Just new things to worry about.

He relaxed in the saddle, head bobbing with the rhythm of his horse. A faster-going set of hooves and wagon wheels, kicked dust going north. Craning his neck back, he couldn't see the stage, but knew it came from Morro Coyo.

It followed the road that followed the river more or less, to the house where Scott was dealing with the bull's owner. He didn't even think about the card game that settled who went to see Mr. Rowe. Maybe his brother had a right to be angry, sure, but that thought didn't change anything. Keeping his horse trotting along wasn't a problem, the only hard thing was keeping the grin off his face when Scott lost. He gave a short slap against Barranca's shoulder with the reins, feeling the breeze stiffen with the surge.

He wondered where the coach was going—Modesto, then west? Or further north? He liked not knowing where. It just was, moving on and moving out. He slid his hat down, drinking in the day.

A black and white blur erupted through a screen of trees in a flurry of wings and shrill cries. Ears pinned, Barranca lurched back on his haunches then sprang forward. Feathers brushed Johnny's cheek and he fell, somersaulting into the dirt. A rolling bag of bones for anyone to see.

Jumping to his feet, he brushed himself off, breaths coming hard. He shook his head, watched the bright twitch of horse tail speed away, all the while trying to talk his leaping heart down to where the rest of him stood. He never liked birds, and he had one more reason.

You couldn't exactly plan for something like that and now he had a walk and his leg was hurting like a sonofabitch and had a bloody elbow. Not pretty. Useless as a matter of fact. On habit, his hand went down to his holster.

Shit, he hadn't even felt it fall out.

He took a few halting steps toward a spray of ferns, lifted them up. Nothing. Sweat trickled down between his shoulder blades. He searched through the tall grass, crunching over uneven ground, the bird's laughing caw never very far away.

He pulled his collar away from his neck, hot, dirty. No, he hadn't expected this, but he guessed it was life, after all. He didn't shy away from it. Except for a few things, like dealing with old man Rowe. A boil would be more welcome. Scott had a right to be mad, that bunkhouse deck was marked. He stopped for a second, felt the valley shift and sway a bit until he focused.

Where was his damn pistol?

A clearing was ahead, and Johnny saw a scrap of color move into the shadows. With just the knife in his boot, he drew closer. A campsite was hidden behind the trees, a makeshift tumble of blanket and tarp.

"Boy, that was the most awkward fall I've seen in some time." The voice surprised him, deep as it was, friendly. Johnny stopped. It called out again and this time a man followed. A wispy black beard, hand gnarled around a bottle. He came out halfway and stared.

"I usually do all right. But it's been a while," Johnny explained on a shrug, "since my own horse threw me."

The man kicked at a ratty woolen blanket on the ground that had seen too much service on an Army cot somewhere and sat, eyes never leaving Johnny, bright beneath seams of tanned leather.

"I thought you were gonna break something, rolling off like that." He gestured to a piece of rotted canvas. "Have a seat, if you want."

Johnny took the bottle when it was passed. Whiskey or something close, he didn't ask, but took a gulp, felt it hit his stomach with a bang. He brought his eyebrows close together and made a face. The man laughed brittle and hard, just like the bird, and Johnny grinned back.

"'Bout the only thing broken is my pride," Johnny sighed, feeling his elbow with his fingers. "I've had worse, though."

The man's face split in two with a half-toothless smile. "I just bet you have, with grace like that." His cackle hung in the air. "Uh-huh, one for sorrow."

"What?"

"A black and white bird, yellow beak, came out of the tree, didn't it? That's a magpie. And unless you talk to him real sweet, he'll bring you bad luck. Now two, mind you, well, that's real lucky. Time to bet the races."

The bottle came back again and Johnny sipped this time. The drifter's name was Wiley and he was a few years older than Johnny, turned out. He'd been in the valley through the too-warm spring—goddamned weather—because he'd taken sick and couldn't travel. A friend had already left, to where breezes were cool and the air filled with ocean salt. They spoke about the towns they both knew, about riding from Matamoros all the way to Red Bluff. About the road and how it was, friends or no. Which towns didn't water down their liquor and which had a sheriff who would turn a blind eye and not throw a body in jail. "It's a good idea to stay out of them all together," Wiley explained, grubbing around in his beard like something was on the move.

The drink was warming on an already hot day, and Johnny stretched his legs out, trying to get what little cool he could. Wiley peered at him with sharp eyes.

"That horse isn't the only thing you’re looking for."

Johnny's hand went down to the empty holster. "True."

"Like losing your right arm?"

"Something like that."

"You’re not a pistolero are you? A kid who thinks slinging a gun from place to place is the good life?"

"I've lived rough, and using a gun seemed like a good idea." He scowled a little. "Like you, I sure as hell needed to get away every once in a while."

"It kicks up sometimes, doesn't it? Doesn't matter time of day, place. But we sure know when it hits, huh?" Wiley hawked and spat on the ground.

Johnny refused another slug of booze. Still had a walk ahead of him, a fair number of miles to get home and his muscles were already seizing up, leg getting stiff. Wiley's face was creased, like an apple left in the sun. A sign of every day lived hard. So too were his bird eyes, never resting, on the prowl for his next worm.

Wiley took a long swig of the bottle, drained it. His trousers were tied up with a length of rope, heavy boots were nicked, split at one toe, and two pairs of socks on each foot waggled down his calves. "You should've taken that stage, boy. Ridden it all the way. Get on out of here." His knee jumped up and down in a constant motion.

"Catch that northbound?” Johnny asked, half-joking.

Wiley shook his head. "You don't get it." He threw the bottle into the grass and it caught a tic of late afternoon sun and Johnny knew Murdoch would be wondering when Barranca showed up at the house.

Maybe there’d been two damn birds around when the Pinkerton found him on that hill top facing the firing squad, almost but not quite, a dead man. And after the fandango with Pardee there were two paths to take—stay or go—but only one of them really possible. There were things Johnny kept hidden, even from himself, but this wasn't one of them. "Sorry," he whispered, more to himself than to Wiley, the smell of bird and juniper enveloping them both.

He stared at Johnny, eyes a hard and broken grey. "An itch needs to be scratched."

Johnny held his stare for a moment then got up with difficulty, because his muscles had gone tight, thanked him for the liquor and the talk.

Wiley waved his hand in the air and grinned through his beard. “Kid, come on back anytime.”

"Except you won't be here, travelling man. You'll be in San Francisco," Johnny called over his shoulder.

"That's right, I'll be gone."

Johnny crossed the glade. He didn't look back.

Back to the where he'd fallen, his boot kicked something heavy, caused him to yelp as his leg protested. He risked a glance down to figure out what it was, surprised to see his pistol, in need of cleaning, but intact.

A chattering came from high up and he found himself more than irritated.

There. Two black-white somethings against the green. Saw them move again, cautious, hopping in tandem from one branch to another. Maybe they were waiting for him to make amends. The whole idea made his skin crawl, but he eased into the smile he knew made most people smile back, and nodded.

His eyes followed the birds, and then his feet did, too. Came to a ring of old, high-as-the-clouds poplars with Barranca standing in the center, lipping a few weeds. Considering Johnny was working off alcohol and sweat, the horse appeared calm enough, turning his head to focus big brown eyes on him. 

He gathered the reins.

If he rode hard, cut across the river, he could catch up with Scott before he went into the lion's den at Rowe’s. But his attention was on the horizon, eyes steady. The sky was pure blue. Beautiful.

It wasn't the sort of observation Johnny Madrid made often. His thoughts skipped back to Wiley and his grubby camp.

But Johnny Lancer could. 

The End


End file.
